By YANG JIAN
He was old.
She, too, was old.
Their years, like lightning, slit the heart of the passerby.
They quickly finished eating a chicken:
He, the head, she, the legs.
From outside the window, a warm spring breeze brushed their faces.
Their hearts stirred for once,
Like the firs in the park,
Towering, nondescript.
It would matter precious little
If they were dead, rotten.
Translated by Stephen Haven and Li Yongyi
Yang Jian’s books of poetry include Dusk, Old Bridge, and Remorse.
ISMAEL RAMOS
It’s important to decide whether or not you want to be alone, Valeria says. It has to be a conscious decision, you know? Otherwise, you end up stuck like that, in limbo, not knowing what to do, thinking one day someone’s going to come and tell you exactly what you need to hear.
GRAY DAVIDSON CARROLL
Poet Gray Davidson Carroll speaks to managing editor Emily Everett about their poem “Silent Spring,” which appears in The Common’s fall issue. Gray talks about poetry as a way to witness and observe the world and how we experience it, and how it’s changing.
MARC VINCENZ
Oh, you genius, you beehive, / you spark, you contiguous line— / all from the same place of origin // where there is no breeze. // All those questions posed … / take no notice, the image / is stamped on your brow, even // as you glare in the mirror, // as the others are orbiting
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Celebrating 15 Years